Chapter 5
5
Josie
I’ve spent the past two weeks feverishly pulling together thoughtful, inspiring programming to bring more people into my store. Tonight, I’m hosting the first strike in my crusade: Pages and Pairings, featuring three new releases, each paired with a wine to capture the essence of the book. I’ve never hosted an event like this before—I’ve always felt too socially awkward to even try—but now, with my job on the line, I have to push myself.
Registration includes a tasting glass of each, plus a copy of one book of the customer’s choice—but I hope they’ll fall in love with the other books and buy those, too. Thirty-two people have registered. If all goes well, I’ll make a tidy profit.
Take that, Ryan of Happy Endings, Upholder of the Patriarchy.
His comment— You could be my assistant —continues to niggle me, pricking at my self-doubt. I’m determined to use it as motivation. The store looks beautiful, with a display of each book and its corresponding wine. Customers are milling about. Soft music tinkles in the background, an instrumental playlist I found on Spotify. Georgia has class tonight, so I’m on my own, but seeing familiar faces helps me relax.
“So glad you could come,” I say to Kevin O’Rourke, who teaches English at the nearby high school.
“Lara and Lana—good to see you! Love the outfits,” I say to the sixty-something twins who dress identically and read books together (literally, at the same time!). They both beam and say thank you (in unison).
Alfonso Canino, my sweet nonagenarian customer, gives me a dry kiss on the cheek and presses a box into my hands. “You shouldn’t have!” I say, delighted; he always brings cannoli from his family’s restaurant in the North End.
Over and over, I apologize for the dust. Construction has started, beginning with knocking down the wall between our back rooms. Now I have to worry about running into Ryan-not-Brian of the Messy Hair and Stupidly Tall Height every time I unpack a shipment or fetch supplies.
Fortunately, that hasn’t happened. Maybe because the storage area for Beans is between us; maybe because he wants to avoid me as much as I want to avoid him.
Unfortunately, I can’t avoid the sounds ricocheting through our connected back rooms. You’d think Beans would be the major culprit, what with the coffee grinders and blenders. But no, it’s the customers and staff at Happy Endings. The squealing. The laughing. Even, a few times, the moaning.
Which is why I planned this event for later in the evening, after construction has ended for the day and Happy Endings is closed. I don’t want anything to disrupt us.
The sommelier, a lanky guy with an exaggerated French accent I hired from Spoke, a nearby wine bar, is describing how he paired a novel set in Spain with a light and bubbly cava. Apparently it has notes of almond and leather—not that that means anything to me. I’m a total noob when it comes to this stuff; the only wine my mom drank was of the boxed variety or Manischewitz at Passover.
But as they say, fake it till you make it.
“This is a beautiful event,” someone says, and I turn to see a gray-haired couple, each with a glass of wine. They’re not regulars, and I’m thrilled to see new faces.
“I’m so happy you’re enjoying yourselves!” I say, smiling. “I’m Josie Klein, manager.”
“Robert and Ingrid Schwartz,” the man says, shaking my hand. He’s a retired attorney, he tells me, and his wife is on the board of the art museum.
“I had no idea this place was here,” she says, showing me her stack of books—a copy of each of tonight’s selections, plus a few others. “What a gem! You can be sure I’ll be back.”
I beam. “Thank you so much.”
“Every aspect of tonight has been curated to perfection,” her husband adds. “The books, the wine…and as Ingrid knows, I’m a huge fan of Itzhak Perlman.”
“ Huge fan,” Mrs. Schwartz says, nodding.
I smile as I try to figure out what they’re talking about. “I’m not familiar with his work. What has he written?”
Mr. Schwartz gives me an indulgent smile. “He’s a violinist. Extremely well known.”
At my blank look, his wife adds, “You’re playing his music. I think my husband assumed—”
“Of course!” I say, laughing awkwardly. “I’m a huge fan, too. So nice to meet you both.”
I excuse myself, hoping they don’t notice my flushed cheeks. It’s a reminder that I am, indeed, still faking it—and I haven’t made it yet.
The sommelier begins his presentation about the rosé he paired with another selection, and I smile while watching everyone nod along.
But then a ripple passes through the crowd. People take a step back. There’s a gasp, a shriek, and the sickening crash of breaking glass.
Heart in my throat, I push through the group to see a huge black cat leaping from the display table, leaving toppled-over books, broken wineglasses, and a wine bottle shattered on the floor. The sommelier shouts some expletive in French, and a woman exclaims loudly that her shoes are now covered in wine.
Horrified, I lunge for the cat, but it slinks away, tiptoeing across a shelf, and I follow it, tossing apologies over my shoulder to my customers and promises to return as soon as I can. How the hell did a cat even get in here? It slips through the slightly open door to my back room—did someone leave the door to the alley open?—and on, past stacks of boxes.
I ease closer, reach down, and carefully pick it up. It rears back and hisses and—
“LET GO OF MY CAT!”
A monstrous figure materializes out of the shadows. I shriek as the cat twists out of my hands and leaps away from me…right into the arms of my adversary.
“This is your cat?” I shout, wincing at the scratches on my forearms. “What was it doing in my store?”
“He’s just exploring!” Ryan says, cuddling the cat to his chest. It scrabbles away and leaps onto a nearby shelf, scowling down at us with fierce yellow eyes.
Ryan has earbuds in—probably listening to a smutty scene while he works—but he pulls one out as he looks at the cat.
“It’s all right, Hades,” he says in a soothing voice. “Did the mean lady scare you?”
I put my hands on my hips, facing Ryan. “Scare him ? That cat ruined my event.”
“What a shame.” Ryan narrows his eyes. Lurid red scratches are blossoming on his neck, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “I’d hate to inconvenience those highbrow customers of yours—”
“Did you send him over on purpose?”
Ryan shoves his messy hair out of his face. “Why would I do that?”
“Because you’re so desperate to beat me you’re willing to play dirty?”
“I won’t need to play dirty to beat you,” Ryan snaps, leaning down until we’re eye to eye.
We lock eyes for the length of a breath, then another.
“When I win,” he says in a low voice, “it’ll be fair and square. But I will enjoy watching you squirm.”
I swallow, my throat suddenly thick. “I don’t squirm.”
“We’ll see.”
Then his gaze flicks to my mouth and stays right there.
The air between us crackles. Now I’m staring at his mouth and remembering the whipped cream on his upper lip and that glimpse of his tongue when he licked it away—
I take a step back, clearing my throat.
“Listen,” I say, smoothing my skirt, “Xander put us in this situation, but we should at least act like adults.”
He folds his arms, a sulky look on his face. “I’m not the one throwing around ridiculous accusations.”
“And I’m not the one who allowed my pet to sabotage someone else’s event!”
He huffs. “I didn’t—”
“No interfering with customers,” I cut in, taking a calming breath. “They’re off-limits.”
“Fine,” he says. “So are my staff. I won’t have you treating them badly to get at me.”
I scoff. What does he take me for? “I would never do that, Brian.”
His face contorts in disgust. “It’s Ryan .”
“Is it?” I arch an eyebrow.
“You know my name.”
“Do I?”
“ Yes! ” he roars.
I smirk; he’s way too easy to rile up. “My mistake. By the way, you owe me for the broken bottle of wine and three broken glasses.”
Ryan’s face reddens, and he reaches into his pocket for his wallet. “How much? Twenty bucks? Forty? Here, have a hundred and let’s call it good.”
He thrusts the bills at me, and the fabric of his T-shirt strains across his chest and shoulders. He’s not wearing his usual cardigan, I realize, and he’s…
My mouth goes dry. I didn’t know he was so…
Well. Broader and thicker than I would’ve expected. My mind fills with an image of him grabbing a full box of books, the sleeves on his T-shirt tightening around his arms as he easily hefts something that would take all my strength to lift.
I flick the thought away and pocket the cash.
“Now if you’ll excuse me,” I say, “I need to get back to my customers and clean up your mess.”
—
Later that night, after I’ve swept up the glass, put away the books, and paid the sommelier, I walk the four blocks to my building—a triple-decker Victorian—and climb the stairs to my apartment, where I flop onto my sofa without turning on the lights.
I’m exhausted. Mind, body, and soul. After the debacle with the feline god of the underworld, my event never got back on track. Half the customers were gone by the time I returned, and only a handful ended up buying additional books.
My phone vibrates with a text from my sister:
How did it go? I’m heading out with friends but I want to hear everything!!
I’m not going to bug her with more of my problems—she deserves to have some fun. She’s been so focused lately, so serious. Georgia was such a happy kid, always smiling and laughing, twirling around our apartment in her tutu and ballet shoes.
Until the accident.
Unbidden, my mind slips back to the evening I got the call. I was in my dorm room at Emerson with my roommate. My phone rang: my mom, her voice hysterical.
Your sister’s been hit by a car.
She’s at the hospital.
They don’t know if she’s going to make it.
The next hour was a blur: rushing to the hospital, racing through the hallways to my sister’s room. Georgia had just come out of surgery. I’ll never forget the sight of her body, tiny and broken in the hospital bed.
I thought that was the worst day. But somehow the worst part came later, when I was back at school and Georgia called to tell me that our mom had taken off with a guy.
After that, everything fell apart. I don’t regret choosing my sister over my own plans, but it took me years to crawl out of that hole. To create a life I’m proud of, even if it’s not what I always hoped for.
And now that life feels fragile. Like those wineglasses shattered on the floor.
Trying to brush the memories away, I pull my laptop toward me, the glow of the screen illuminating my dark living room as I navigate to BookFriends. RJ.Reads has added a new book to his Read shelf—an ARC I finished a month or so ago—but no rating or review yet.
BookshopGirl: Hey! I saw you read that new debut that’s getting all the buzz. What did you think??
His light turns green; he’s online. For the first time in hours, I smile.
RJ.Reads: Oh my god, so good. It made me cry. Four times.
BookshopGirl: Only four? I cried at least nine times.
RJ.Reads: Well, one cry session encompassed the last hundred pages.
I laugh, my shoulders relaxing. We don’t often like the same books—RJ tends to go for lighter fare than I do—so it’s extra fun when we find common ground.
Of course, it’s also fun when we argue.
BookshopGirl: So…what did you think about the structure?
RJ has a knack for identifying the structural reasons a story did or didn’t work: inciting incidents, plot points, dark moments, etc. This book bucked convention, but I thought it was effective.
RJ.Reads: It was unique, I’ve got to hand it to the author. But the pacing was a little slow to start.
BookshopGirl: What?? That first section was crucial to setting up the entire storyline! You’re just impatient.
RJ.Reads: It could of been streamlined.
RJ.Reads: *could have (sorry)
RJ.Reads: But my point still stands: the beginning was slow.
BookshopGirl: Fine, okay. What did you think about the ending?
The tension of the day releases as I relax into the familiar, comforting world of fiction.
I wish I could stay here forever.